A Stranger In Our Town

The market was all of a titter. There is a stranger in town. He is plainly dressed and rides red a bicycle. He is staying at the local inn according to the innkeeper. He arrived late in the night. In a soft voice he asked for accommodation for the next few weeks. The innkeeper said he was almost full, with Christmas and all, but could offer a comfortable room with a view of the village.

I am a social worker and enjoy living in this village. It suits my requirements. I am a private person and enjoy speaking to people one-on-one and caring for them. I suppose I am a keen observer of humans and their habits. But, I don’t judge them I just eyewitness and in this case, share the event.

Oh, how the gossipmongers love to have some new piquant details to digest and digest again. Mrs Warren is always trying to marry off her daughter and she has eyes on the stranger, for her. Miss Agatha is totally suspicious of him. She can’t imagine why a stranger should want to visit this out-of-the-way mining town and on a bicycle. Mr Grant says the stranger has a kind face and that the chitchat should be quiet and just let the stranger be.

The village of Mercy is a small village situated out in the wide open spaces, really far away from everything and anything. The terrain is flat and the winds bluster. I often think it is to blow the town clean. The dust and grime just - gusts away. I am able to have piles of books and papers in my sitting room, patiently waiting for me to caress their pages with my hands and eyes. They are never dusty and because of that I just pile them up! One day I will read them I say, but, I am so busy with my Pastoral work in the Church that I don’t get much time to sit and read. I visit the sick and the bereaved, and sometimes take food to the needy. By the time I get home I walk in my garden and make a small something to eat and flop into my old four-poster bed.

I live in my grandmother’s house. She lived here all her life. My mother was born here and left when she was swept-off by my father to live in the city, where I was born. I did not fit into the city. I was a thin, introvert child and shied away from the bustle of city life. When my grandmother left me the house in her will I did not need a moment to think about the move. She had kept the house in perfect order. She was neat and tidy. All her possessions were meticulously packed. I was able to distribute her belongings to the appropriate people and keep sufficient to maintain her spirit in the old house.


So, the stranger is seen on a daily basis walking the streets and sometimes riding his bike if he was going far. He seems to be out and about during the day and by night ensconced in his room. On Sunday he attended Church and appeared to know all the words and actions. He shook the priest’s hand when he was leaving the Church and made his way back to the inn.

The stranger has not given the gossipmongerers much fuel to gossip about. Sometimes, I worry about that, as if they don’t have much fuel they make it up and it is not savoury…

Mercy is a mining town and is dirty – if the wind does not blow. Most of the residents don’t worry about their gardens as the flowers get destroyed by the wind and grime. The gardens are small, some are bare and some are overgrown and uncared for. I was fortunate that my grandmother was fastidious about planting indigenous plants. (They tend to care for themselves.) Of course, I water them. I find it soothing to walk around the garden with the green hosepipe, watering each bed in succession. The flowers enjoy the evening shower and give-off succulent scents into the mining air.

Christmas Day drew near the gossip about the stranger got worse and worse. Some even suggest that he is an escaped prisoner. The stories go on and on. I am always astonished at the imagination of the villagers. One cannot help but hear what they are saying as they don’t keep their voices down. I worry that the stranger will hear these hypotheses. He does not seem to be concerned about the residents, though.

Christmas Eve dawned and the day was sooty and dull. The villagers went about their business covering their heads and scuttling in the murky air. It did not stop some of the women gathering in the coffee shop and continuing with their fiction.

I awoke early on Christmas Day. Something disturbed me; I thought it could have been a bicycle bell. I walked down the passage to the kitchen to make some tea (and eat my first mince pie) and got distracted as I passed the lounge, I went towards the window. Outside seemed brighter than usual. Especially, as yesterday was so black and morbid. I went to the window and pulled open my grandmother’s brocades and saw across into Mr Grant’s garden; it was full of flowers. Yesterday, it was not like that. I went back for my dressing gown and went out into the garden and made my way down the path to the front gate. The villagers were all waking-up and walking in their gardens full of blooms. They were running from bed to bed in awe.

I watched mutely from my grandmother’s wooden gate. I wondered if I would see the stranger at Church this morning.

Copyright © 2008 Beverleigh Gail Annegarn

Thank you for your Holiday entry Bev!

Best of luck!

May the 'classic' holiday spirit be shared in your heart throughout the season!

~ Mosaic Musings Staff

What a beautiful story..I really enjoyed it..a real treat:)

Oh thank you! Where have you been?

Bev

HI Bev,

This is a wonderful story, told by the innocent voice of the narrator - a perfect match to the theme of people being scared/intimidated a stranger and then wowed at the end by his exclusively non-biased magic.

A wonderful story for the holidays!
Enjoyed,
~Cleo

Thank you Cleo! (I think there is room for polishing!)

Bev

Congratulations!

This submission has been nominated as a finalist in the fifth annual Mosaic Musings Holiday Classic!



Best of luck!

Thank you Lori! Really chuffed to be nominated.

Happy New Year from sunny , beachy, Southbroom!

Bev